


theory of everything

by Avvu



Series: put a price on emotion [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Internal Monologue, Loneliness, M/M, Meta, Mycroft Feels, Nature Versus Nurture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avvu/pseuds/Avvu
Summary: Evolution has given humanity an ability to question, to explore, and an insatiable will to learn. Yet, as factory settings, humanity can’t stand quandary.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: put a price on emotion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923898
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	theory of everything

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii.  
> long time no mystrade, but here we go again. this is an extra "chapter" for the papoe series, but it's in two parts because ohhh man, mycroft's pov is a lot to deal with. I hope I'm not making myself sound like a total idiot as I'm trying to put together mycroft-esk thoughts. :') 
> 
> also, note: this is not a stand-alone, so go read [modus operandi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237520/chapters/58400287) first if you haven't yet, because the next part will spoil it. andddd this is not the actual second part of the series, this is kind of part 1,5.

( _Sleeping At Last – Fear_ )

  
  


For as long as he can remember, Mycroft has found people’s procession for information fascinating. Humans, as a species, crave answers. They start asking _why_ in their first life years, and the urge to know and make sense of things continues throughout life. Evolution has given humanity an ability to question, to explore, and an insatiable will to learn. Yet, as factory settings, humanity can’t stand quandary. Humans need causes, explanations, and singular details to untie complex matters. When science and known information fails, the easiest way is to turn to religion and each other.

Religion, in Mycroft’s opinion, is an easy way out, something that gives hope and forgiveness and, quite literally, absolution. It’s childish reasoning, yet understandable. Most people can’t explain the world around them without supernaturalism.

Gregory Alan Lestrade, born the 2nd of January 1966, age 39, a newly promoted Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard, is a prime example of the human species’ insatiable urge to know _what_ and _why_. It’s a fine feature for a detective, but unbearably unnecessary on this very occasion.

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Lestrade asks, hands in his jacket pockets and both eyebrows raised; an expression to show both amusement and disbelieve.

“No,” Mycroft answers. Lestrade hasn’t shown any signs of intimidation so far, and Mycroft doesn’t believe that would change whatever he said. He knows a thing or two about policemen’s ability to endure stress, and he has seen Lestrade’s professional and personal files. It has been stated there that Lestrade has high morals, he works best under pressure. It’s also clearly evidenced he has tendencies for _workaholism_ , which, naturally, is a form of avoidance coping. In Lestrade’s case, it’s not on the self-destructive scale. Maybe it’s because his marriage is not going well; his wife is cheating, and a healthy relationship doesn’t tend to involve adultery. He doesn’t know it yet, and Mycroft won’t be the one to inform him about this.

The DI is relaxed and calm, but his neck and shoulders are tense, but as the tension doesn’t pour into his actions or words, it’s not visible for inexperienced eyes. Mycroft can see it clearly.

“Then what the _hell_ are you playing at?” Lestrade asks with a tone a factor off from annoyance, it’s pretentious and only to hide the real emotion. He’s not scared, he's not intimidated, but he is weary. Anxious, even. “I don’t know Sherlock Holmes. I’ve only seen him once.”

“Twice,” Mycroft corrects him. Lestrade rolls his eyes at him. “The first time was at twelve past ten this morning, and the second time was two hours and fourteen minutes ago. And you let him into a crime scene the second time you met him,” Mycroft says. He doesn’t yet know _how_ Sherlock managed that, and it irritates him not knowing. Though, if solving crimes is what Sherlock wants to do, it surely is better than the alternative.

“I did, yeah,” Lestrade says, shrugging. “He said he could help, and he didn’t ask any money.”

“And did he?” Mycroft asks.

“Help?” Lestrade asks. “He did.”

“All I’m asking, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says, slowly, calmly, not to make it sound like he’s obligating Lestrade to do anything. Addressing him by the title makes Lestrade visibly tense. It’s interesting. “If you’ll be seeing Sherlock Holmes in the future, you could keep an eye on him.”

“I’m not going to babysit an adult man because some bloke in a three-piece is trying to frighten me,” Lestrade says, and _now_ it’s squeamishness.

Mycroft says nothing.

“Are we quite done?” Lestrade asks. “My wife’s probably waiting for me to come home.”

“Your wife is not home,” Mycroft says, and he knows Lestrade knows this too.

“Fine,” Lestrade says. “But I’d like to be, so if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft lets him go, and notices how Lestrade turns twice to look back over his shoulder.

  
  


*

  
  


It is a controversial topic if humans’ intelligence will be the downfall of Homo sapiens. Without intelligence humans would have never realised what plants to eat, how to make fire, the Neolithic Revolution would have never happened, therefore the early civilisations would have never happened either. But then again, the precision grasp played a critical role in early human evolution.

Mind versus body is a useless philosophical question but yet an example of how humans _need to know_ ; which dominated humanity, physicality or mentality, is there a God, how big is the Universe, were Barney and Betty Hill abducted by aliens, what happened to Amelia Earhart, will time travel ever be possible, is there a monster in the Loch Ness, what happens to consciousness after death. People love to guess and fantasise about all those things, they write fiction and theories, make hypothesises, try to explain the Universe with scientific notations. Science itself is based on criticism, self-reflect and trial and error, and if that isn’t the most telling base of human nature, then what is?

“Sir,” Miss Rabinowitz says knocking on the door frame. She has a pile of papers on top of a binder and on top of all that is her phone, constantly lightning up with new notifications. She has, in Mycroft’s understanding, taken all of his work-related emails to check. She’s a new employee, but Mycroft has known her for a couple of years. She used to work for the GCHQ in the department of Intelligent Assurance. She’s a bit over-qualified to be a PA, but she has been enjoying it. “There is Sherrinford for you on line two, and the Prime Minister wants to know if you’ll be free on Thursday.”

“Am I free on Thursday?” Mycroft asks.

“I believe so, sir,” Miss Rabinowitz says. “Presuming the PM is a priority.”

“I’m afraid he is,” Mycroft says, taking the phone receiver in his hand. He has been waiting for the bi-weekly update call for two days already. The delay hasn’t made him worried, only irritated. He believes he has been extremely precise with his wishes, but the newest staff has been slipping. He thinks he might have to let the newest people go after all.

“Was there anything else, Miss Rabinowitz?” he asks.

“No, sir,” she says, but doesn’t leave. “Well. Should I know of Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Your brother has been emailing you about him,” Miss Rabinowitz says. She sounds almost apologising saying that, but Mycroft can’t pinpoint which things make her sorry; Sherlock, emails, or the topic of those emails.

“I’m aware of that,” Mycroft says, and he _is_. In the past two years Sherlock has invented himself a job title, a _consulting detective_ , and, for some yet unknown reason, DI Lestrade has been _consulting_ him. Perhaps it says something about the skills of the Metropolitan Police Service if they need his brother’s help, perhaps it says something about Sherlock’s obstinacy if he has been able to offer his help.

“Should I do something about it?” Miss Rabinowitz asks.

“No,” Mycroft says. “That’s quite alright.”

“Very well,” she says. “I’ll leave you to that,” she adds, nodding towards the phone. She leaves, and Mycroft takes the call.

Thinking about human nature, Mycroft finds it extremely interesting how Sherlock feels he has to inform Mycroft about his life. It’s not that he doesn’t want to know, he does, and if Sherlock didn’t tell him, he would find out some way or another, but Sherlock has a tendency to act like he thought Mycroft as unnecessary baggage in his life. And yet, Sherlock needs reassurance and approval from _him_. His little brother’s trauma doesn’t only show by rewritten memories, but also by almost unbearable insecurities and frequent substance usage.

Mycroft has been monitoring DI Lestrade ever since their first meeting. The Detective Inspector is practically the only other person Sherlock has been keeping close, apart from Mycroft himself. _That_ is interesting, and it is yet unknown for him what could be the reason. What is so appealing about the detective of Scotland Yard that keeps Sherlock around? It couldn’t be only the obvious crime aspect of things; it has come to Mycroft’s attention that Sherlock has had a few _clients_ of his own. For some reason, people search for Sherlock’s help. And what Mycroft has been able to gather, it seems Sherlock has been able to help those people. Sherlock’s interest in mysteries and puzzles is not news for him, but perhaps it’s another example of a human’s urge to _know_. The untenable quandary, the greatest enemy of all times.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


Doctor John Hamish Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland fusiliers, served in Afghanistan for three years between the years 2006 and 2009, whom Sherlock is now sharing the rooms in 221B Baker Street. Dr Watson’s trauma shows symptoms such as psychosomatic limb, nightmares and trust issues, it seems. However, the latter doesn’t seem to apply to Sherlock, for some unknown reason. Dr Watson has killed a man to save Sherlock, and it has been less than 36 hours since they’ve met.

Human nature, what a curious thing.

There are twelve uniformed police officers at sight, probably more, Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan, two fully occupied ambulances, four emergency medical technicians, a body, two streets are shut down from both ends. Serial suicides, they said, though there has been a man making the kills. A man, who is now dead, because Dr Watson has shot him dead.

Miss Rabinowitz is already in the car, and they _are_ leaving, when DI Lestrade comes over, hands in jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed. It’s obvious a figurative weight has been lifted as the case of the serial suicides has come to an end. Mycroft has been keeping an eye on him, mostly for Sherlock’s sake, but he has found DI Lestrade’s work quite remarkable at times. His way of operating is very practical, and having Sherlock around may make him seem slower than he actually is. Mycroft has an objective interest in the Metropolitan Police Service; he has been there when the latest renovations have been made, but there is also a subjective aspect. DI Lestrade has taken Sherlock’s help, and Mycroft has been pulling a few strings to make it a continuing arrangement.

“Babysitting, are you?” Lestrade says, it’s a poor conversation started. They have met a few times over the past five years. There have been two incidences that have involved Sherlock, drugs and a phone call from Lestrade at four in the morning. Lestrade is a kind man, Mycroft hasn’t yet come up with some other word to describe him. Lestrade is kind enough to care about Sherlock, kind enough to keep up with him.

“Babysitting would involve a child,” Mycroft says.

“Well, yeah,” Lestrade says, shrugging. “Isn’t he one, though?”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. It’s a joke, a recurring one, and it’s closer to truth Lestrade probably even knows.

“Anyway,” Lestrade starts, it’s his way of getting to his point. “What do you think of this John Watson?”

Mycroft considers for a moment how to answer. Lestrade seems to be genuinely interested in Mycroft’s opinion on the matter, which is _interesting_. Surely he thinks Lestrade is a kind man, but the kindness hasn’t been very obvious towards Mycroft. He hasn’t been mean towards him, not even cold, but not exactly friendly either. It’s understandable, and it’s what Mycroft has wanted. As long as Sherlock thinks the people closest to him don’t like him greatly, Mycroft can keep an eye on his brother better.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Mycroft says. Only he has. Dr Watson has killed a man to save Sherlock, and that if nothing else, is reckless in a way it’s hard to even explain. It could be good or bad, or it could be a bit of both. It’s new territory for Sherlock, to have a friend, or rather, _anyone_. There are a few people Sherlock has kept around over the past years. One of them is DI Lestrade, then there is Molly Hooper, a specialist registrar at the St Bartholomew’s hospital. A few others, some acquaintances, but no one has made this big of an impact on his brother than Dr John Watson.

Lestrade looks at him with mock surprise. “You haven’t?”

“What do you think, then?” Mycroft asks.

Lestrade shrugs again. “Seems like a nice enough bloke. Might be a good company for Sherlock.”

Lestrade swipes his thumb over his mouth and glances over to his left at nothing; an unconscious, revealing gestures a police officer should know how to prevent.

“You know, then,” Mycroft says. He’s slightly surprised by this, but it’s evident from the way Lestrade is acting. Lestrade wouldn’t have come to him if he didn’t know, if he thought Dr Watson was just a nice enough bloke.

“Know what?” Lestrade asks.

“That Dr Watson was the one to fire the shot,” Mycroft elucidates. It’s not necessary, it’s obvious Lestrade knows what he has meant.

“Yeah,” Lestrade admits. “Sherlock kind of gave it away.”

“I’m surprised he did.” He is not. “Will you do something about it?”

Lestrade stops to think for a moment. “No,” he says then. “He doesn’t seem like someone who’d go around killing people just because he has a gun.”

“You are right, he isn’t one,” Mycroft says, probably to make Lestrade ease up, probably to convince himself.

“Good,” Lestrade says, nodding. “I take it you’ve already done the whole scaring thing. Did he take the money?” He grins into the question.

Mycroft can feel his own mouth twitching. “No.”

“So he’s secure then,” Lestrade says. “Good. That’s good.” He turns to look over his shoulder, where the blue lights on top of the police vehicles are blinking. “I guess I need to go sort this thing out before the media turns up.” He says _Goodbye_ and _See you_ with unfamiliar ease in his tone.

Mycroft makes sure the media takes at least an hour before turning up to the crime scene.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


“What are you thinking about?”

Mycroft looks up. Someone has cut Eurus’s hair, it used to be much longer. He wonders who has been able to that, because Eurus hasn’t been allowed near anything sharper than a spoon after she stabbed a nurse with a fork one time. He isn’t going to ask, because she is not going to answer his questions.

He keeps doing this, he tries to have conversations with her, even if he knows it’s never going to happen. Their minds keep clashing together in a way it makes it almost impossible to say anything without the other one analysing it.

“Your hair is shorter,” Mycroft says.

“Is it?” Eurus asks, the microphone makes her voice sound even flatter than it is, and she keeps looking at him. It seems like she doesn’t blink. She just stares, her chest is rising with her breathing and it’s the only thing moving. Her arms are hanging motionless on her sides. The clothes she has been given are too loose on her, she has lost weight again. No one knows why it happens, she eats when she’s given food, but something her body just seems to reject all. She’s being monitored at all times, and she hasn’t been doing anything to make her use more energy than she’s given. It’s her metabolism acting up, it works as unpredictably as her mind.

“It’s nice,” Mycroft tells her.

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

She blinks. The illusion is broken, she’s alive after all, she’s not a breathing statue. However, Mycroft wouldn’t call her human either. Most of the time she’s above all that. The almost childish urge to know is already fulfilled with her. She just _knows,_ she doesn’t have any curiosity left in her. There is nothing left for her to know. She might not know everything that is happening outside her cell, but everything else is already in her head. Cleverness is not a strong enough word to describe her; she’s above that. It’s almost ironic that the most human thing about her is her recurring psychosis. It’s like her brain can’t take all the information in without malfunctioning. Her mind has already blocked most of the basic human feelings from her, making her closer to a machine than a _human_.

And still, the sentimental fool in Mycroft wishes he could get through her, get something out of her. It doesn’t get him anywhere, to be sentimental; he knows what he needs to do and what he can’t let Eurus do. She can’t get out. The cell is protecting her as much other people. The norms don’t allow someone like Eurus to have a normal life.

For the past ten minutes, Eurus hasn’t moved, and when she does, it startles Mycroft. Her chuckle doesn’t have humour in it, it’s a mirrored reaction she has learned from other people.

“You’re so scared, big brother,” she says.

It stings when she calls him that. Brother and sister have such different definition inside Sherrinford. The biological fact cannot be declined, but the social and psychological meaning of the words is a watered-down version, an echo. They share parents, Sherlock and genes, but nothing else. Mycroft has cut her out of the rest of the world, and he has made sure no one knows about her. Their parents think she’s dead, and Sherlock can’t remember her at all. Some people do know about her, but those people are not a threat. Mycroft knows they can keep her a secret, because those people who do know, know things that are even more dangerous than Eurus Holmes.

“Why are you here?” Eurus asks.

Mycroft sighs. It’s the first time he is visiting her after Sherlock’s _departure._ It has only been a week, but people talk, even in Sherrinford, and by knowing someone must have told Eurus.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but his body betrays him; he looks towards the camera on the opposite corner from him. It’s not on, he has made sure, but the shift in his gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by Eurus. She turns her whole body and looks at the camera. It isn’t obvious from the outside if it’s recording or not, but that doesn’t matter.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes, overly dramatically, mocking. “He’s not dead.”

A fraction of a second of a miss-directed eye movement and she _knows_. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. It’s possible she has known or deduced it already, but Mycroft has given it away. He’s usually sharper around her, but in his defence, it has been quite a hellish couple of months.

“Where is he?” Eurus asks. She sounds bored, she’s asking but she doesn’t care. There aren’t many things that she cares about. Sherlock’s whereabout are certainly not one of them.

“The last I’ve heard, in Belarus,” Mycroft says. It’s no use lying to her, even he can’t lie to her. He could use all the tricks he knows and she could still tell.

Eurus looks at him with a glint in her eyes, it might be interest, it might be repulsion or disappointment. Most likely it’s nothing. Mycroft tends to over-read her, to see reactions, signs, he wants to see, when at the same time she overreacts and inflates her responses in a way it’s only noticeable to him.

“Why are you here?” Eurus repeats.

Mycroft shifts.

“This is a check-up.”

“For me?”

 _For me_ , Mycroft wants to say, but instead, he replies with: “Yes.”

“No,” Eurus says. The glint is gone, all is left is her flat expression. “You have come here because you are lonely.”

Mycroft clenches his teeth.

“You are lonely because Sherlock has gone away, and you don’t understand the difference between lonely and _alone_. Alone is a physical form of being, but loneliness makes people kill themselves.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Stop it.”

She doesn’t speak after that.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


Sherlock has made him make an unspoken promise to look after those who can’t know he is still alive. As it has been pointed out on multiple occasions, the number is not high. It might be a trauma-related behavioural pattern he has developed over time, it’s not hero complex per se, but an unconstrained urge to keep people around him out of harm's way.

Understandable yet unnecessary.

DI Lestrade is part of that promise. Sherlock has condemned him, among Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson, by unwisely spoken out his name in a situation where staying quiet would have been the right thing to do. Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson are easily monitored, they have ordinary, dull lives, with Sherlock being the most stimulating factor. But DI Lestrade is on high alert all of the time. Mycroft has been wondering if the best thing to do would be to force DI Lestrade to take a leave from work over the most critical time. Suggesting that to the man himself isn’t an option considering the _workaholic_ nature of the Detective Inspector. Where Dr Watson has found an ongoing break from work to be the best way to cope with Sherlock’s alleged death, DI Lestrade has made sure he is busy with work. The Homicide and Major Crime Command is more effective than ever, mostly seeing that Lestrade has been opening cold cases to compensate for the lack of new investigations.

Lestrade is a bit harder to monitor, but nothing is impossible with the right methods. It takes less than twenty minutes for Mycroft to locate the DI, then arrange himself into the same location and make it seem like an accident. It takes Lestrade a few glances at him before he seems to register who he is in the company of.

“Afternoon,” Mycroft says first, since Lestrade is only standing there, blinking. He has the look of a man who hasn’t been taking care of himself, a wrinkly button-up shirt underneath the light summer jacket, three days worth of stubble, dark circles under the eyes, unmatching socks. His shoulders and jaw are tight, his left thumb keeps rubbing against the middle finger in an unconscious, anxious fidgeting gesture.

“Hello,” Lestrade says, it sounds like a question more than an actual greeting. Mycroft doesn’t blame him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I was having a meeting,” Mycroft offers as an explanation. “I’m waiting for a car.”

“Right.” A glance to the right, breaking the eye contact. They have seen each other at the funeral, they changed pleasantries there, but nothing else

“I’m sorry about the divorce.”

Lestrade’s gaze turns hastily at Mycroft, it takes a few seconds for his expression to change from confusion to closed to faked reassurance. The tension on his jaw exposes him even if his face is apparently relaxed.

“Don’t be,” he says, trying to cover up the bitterness with a dry, humourless laugh. “It was a long time coming.”

Mycroft knows that, and he has known that years before Lestrade, but yet again, it is not his place to tell. Sherlock might have—must have—said something, he has the tendency to blurt out everything he has noticed about someone. But, considering the circumstances Mycroft is seeing Lestrade, bringing up Sherlock wouldn’t be a good idea either.

Mycroft won’t bring up the timing either; contrary to Lestrade’s belief, the timing of his divorce is not a coincidence compared to everything else that has been happening. The marriage hasn’t been working out for years. Signing the divorce papers now, as Lestrade believes a _friend_ of his has killed himself by jumping down from a rooftop of the St Bartholomew’s Hospital, is not a coincidence. It’s a subconscious chain reaction, a fear of throwing away one’s life, a wake-up call to see one’s life in a new, gritty light. An abrupt ending of the life of someone close to him has made him consider his own life choices, and an unhappy marriage has failed to make the cut, so to speak.

“How do you even know about it?” Lestrade asks. The thought makes him uncomfortable in a way he can’t disguise. He crosses his arms, shifts his gaze away from Mycroft, braces himself for things he doesn’t want to know.

But at that moment the car comes, and with it a figurative save for the DI.

“I have my resources,” Mycroft says vaguely. “Do not worry, it’s not open knowledge for everybody to have.”

Lestrade doesn’t look reassured, but Mycroft won’t stay to change that. He wishes Lestrade a nice rest of the day, gets into the car, and sends a message to Sherlock.

  
  


  
  


*

  
  


Where there are intelligence and independence, there is also primal herd behaviour. Humans live in communities, cities, crowds, surrounded by other humans. Culture is based on integrity and unity, evolution and intelligence are depended on shared knowledge. The same knowledge humans can’t get enough of. Isolation and sequester are supposed to be avoided in a society where everything comes around to the need of sharing space with other humans. A human child is not able to develop without another human being, and physical touch is the backbone of stable growth.

It’s somewhat ironic, that the presumably most intelligent species on Earth can’t function without the factor of other people. Sole independence is an illusion to be broken.

The separation into introverted and extroverted people is not about social relations, it’s about simulation, nervous system and chemicals; unsocial people still need the herd.

There is still a difference between the herd and _friendship_. To be part of the herd is in human nature. To get involved with a friendship is a choice, a decision. It’s not automatically a factor that improves the quality of life, quite the contrary. It has the potential to lower the quality considerably. It’s a choice other people have made.

  
  


  
  


“I’m not _lonely_ , Sherlock.”

_Are you sure?_

“How would you know?”

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, tell me if you're here for Eurus and Mycroft's subjective interest in the Met, too.


End file.
